


Scarcity

by Aliana



Series: Back to Middle-earth Month 2012 [10]
Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath, Drabble Sequence, Gap Filler, Gen, Gondor, Minas Tirith, Minor Character(s), Survival, Third Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:21:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aliana/pseuds/Aliana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the Siege, the men and women of Minas Tirith take inventory. One drabble for each circle of the city. (Alternate summary: Aliana loves minor characters. Praise them with Great Praise.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scarcity

**Author's Note:**

> March 12  
>  **B2MeM Challenge:**  Skin and Other Stories ( Book Titles); Beyond (Deep Thoughts); Infrastructure (Economy); The Seven Madmen (Magic and Real)  
>  **Format:** Drabble sequence  
>  **Genre:** General  
>  **Rating:** Teen  
>  **Warnings:** Mature themes.  Angst.  Logistics.  
>  **Characters:** Húrin of the Keys, Bergil, Beregond, Ioreth, Ingold, OCs

**Seven**

Húrin’s laid out the objects that give him his title. Time-corroded keys, and newer ones, bright and smooth. Unwieldy implements for the thickest-barred gates, and finer things for cabinet and chest. Keys with straight simple prongs, with jagged broken teeth. He can tell them all with eyes shut.

He sorts them now, aiming to discard: he pushes away the mateless keys to doors that have been smashed, in a mockery of guard and order.

He coughs; even now the air seems pregnant with ash—and then there are the doors best to leave shut, that no-one will wish unlocked again.

**Six**

Again and again they come to the dispensary; again and again Elloth sends them away empty-handed. The milder herbs are still abundant: lavender and chamomile, anise and rue. Pleasant things.

But the healers don’t seek pleasantries anymore. It’s the heavy-lidded romance of the poppy they want, to soothe the moans of those who lie bleeding. No more, she tells them. She’s checked, herself, shifted vials and powders on the shelves. No more.

Still, gentle lavender has its uses; handkerchiefs infused with it muffle the scent of rot as she walks between the beds.

The sounds prove more difficult to negate.

She hums.

**Five**

He remembers the first messages he’d been given; thick sheets, folded and sealed stiffly, addressed with fine handwriting. As days wore on, they grew briefer, often scribbled in his presence, damp ink smearing. No seals; who can afford to wait for wax to dry?

Then they’d dispensed with paper, altogether, missives taking the form of single sentences—harder to carry these, in a way, for fear he’d distort them without the permanency of ink. _Need a half-dozen… No, we can’t… Tell them to hurry…_

Bergil watches his father, who sits silently. These days, words are precious, rationed—and utterly useless.

**Four**

Rumors trickle through the City companies: casualty counts, Captains’ councils. Relion manages to turn the conversation against the prevailing current:

“How many girls?”

“What?”

“How many girls’ve you had?”

Beren shifts, uncomfortable. “Four?”

“ _Four_?”

“Why? What about you?”

“More than four.” His smile, charming, invites a blow, and Beren doesn’t disappoint.

Later, Beren thinks how rare a chance it must be, to know you’re doing something for the final time: eat, dress, lie with a woman. In battle, these bits of lives are small, melting away. He wonders if, somewhere beyond the flesh of our bodies, someone is keeping count.

**Three**

No few of the men try to dissuade her from going to the lower circles, but Ioreth is prompt, unrelenting. She’s seen her share of dead over the years, knows the small rites of necessity. Of kindness. Shut his eyes if need be, cross stiff arms; undo clasps and ties with polite hands, collecting the things his kin might want. Letters, daggers, wedding-rings; these she delivers safely to the captains.

She always covers their faces before consigning them the flames. Gradually the men stop their protests, accept her help. When they must turn away, hide their own eyes, she continues.

**Two**

Ingold’s men, feeding the funeral fires, are parched, brows sweat-soaked. It’s a long climb to the upper circles, carrying meager basins and buckets. He spent his boyhood winding up and down the levels of the city on errands for his father’s shop. Things had been solid, then.

_We’ve come to the edge of the world_ , he thinks. His company’s been nigh halved. _Now, let us not take one more step than we need._

He picks his way through rubble, into a courtyard. There, as if a sign of grace, a small fountain flows. Cracked, yes, and weak. But unmistakably alive.

**One**

So. They’re prisoners of the tarkil. Other sects might reckon his tribe too gentle, but they have a saying: _Fathers and husbands are swifter to lay down the sword._

His captors are fastidious about their dead. Though he knows but a few words of their speech, their gestures are clear enough: _Your corpses here, and ours there. Keep the distance. Not even in the flames will they meet._

Skin is skin, he thinks; in the end, all bones char to the same ash. Today is an open wound, but in the end our gods will know us. And yours, you.

**Author's Note:**

> Readers of [ _Fallen_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/364151/chapters/591380) and assorted ficlets will recognize Elloth, Beren and Relion.  The POW in the final drabble is the narrator of my earlier B2MeM story, ["The Things I Have Heard."](http://archiveofourown.org/works/367343)


End file.
